Boys Will Be Boys
by twinklet26
Summary: The Disciple decides he is tired of people knowing him as the boring Jedi historian, and thus begins his socalled path to redemption and ultimate scoundrelin’…and of course, Atton is always ready to share and give his—ahem—aid and wisdom.


You know those agonizing minutes you spend writing down your New Year's Resolutions? Well, that was what the crew of the Ebon Hawk was currently enduring, and many were starting to feel that they were better off battling Sith Lords and the like, instead of being cooped up here. Force, being pestered by the Exile to wear that skimpy outfit and dance for Vogga was starting to look real friendly…

But instead, they were being pestered by Demi to write their New Year's Resolutions.

Just stop and think for one second.

Have you ever, _ever_ seen a Mandalorian or an assassin droid so attentively writing down lists of things that would make them a better person? Mical could just imagine what they were writing.

_1) Must stop with the sudden, violent urges to kill something. _

_2) Must stop with the gory, disturbing urges to kill something._

_3) Must stop with the ferociously tempting urges to kill something._

Well, at least they had a theory about what they were going to write. Mical rapped his fingers on the table in the main hold in impatience, as he stared down at his holopad which was remaining frustratingly blank.

It wasn't as though he thought he was a perfect person who had no bad traits that needed improving whatsoever; it was more of the fact that he had been writing the same resolutions, at least in his head, for many years now—

_1) Be kind and cultured. _

_2) Try to see things from everybody's point of view._

_3) Become a better person and back in his Academy years a wiser Jedi._

—and it was getting old.

Aggravated, he threw the holopad so hard that it hit the opposite wall with a crash.

"Hey!" Mira yelled from who-knows-where. "Keep it down, will you? I'm trying to concentrate on my resolutions to keep our Lady Jedi happy!"

"Right!" Mical mumbled. "Sorry."

"Thanks."

Mical strode over to fallen holopad, and started typing.

_Resolution Number One: Stop apologizing so often._

"Well, well," said a familiar drawling voice, its speaker leaning against the wall. "If the blondie isn't being a good boy and following his orders."

"Hello, Atton," said Mical stiffly, sticking the holopad in his pocket. He was well aware of the little competition they seemed to be having. Mical hadn't asked for it, but ever since he had joined the crew in Dantooine, Atton seemed determined to make him go back to where he came from. "Have you finished your resolutions?"

"Sure," Atton said nonchalantly, grabbing a seat, setting his feet on the table, and leaning back on his chair as far as it would go without falling. "Finished it in two minutes flat. It doesn't really take a lot of thought." He fingered at a +2 card absent mindedly.

"I'm sure that the total lack of writer's block was helped by the fact that there is immense room for your self-improvement," Mical said.

Then he blinked.

_Did I just say that outloud?_ he thought, bewildered.

Atton pushed back his chair. "Oh, yeah?" he demanded, firing up. "Well, I can sure think of enough improvements for yourself, pretty boy. First off," he started, pacing around the room. "Stop following Demi around like some sick puppy dog. I know she doesn't fall for your wise Jedi act, so you can just give it up. She likes scoundrels, not boring, predictable gentlemen."

"You seem to be forgetting that time she slapped you hard across the face," Mical replied. "But, certainly, I can see you mistaking that for affection."

A grim smile spread across Atton's face. "She can't resist me, blondie. And you know it, don't you? That slap only symbolized this frustration she's having, and the sooner you, that old hag, and the stupid Jedi code stop forcing her into pushing down her emotions, the sooner she'll realize that there _is_ something between us."

"Yes," Mical said blandly. "A galaxy of loathing and disgust."

Atton just glared at him.

Mical sighed. "I'm so…I'm sorry, Atton. It just automatically spilled out."

_So much for my first resolution,_ he thought darkly.

"I guess you're not as innocent as Demi thinks you are, are you?"

Mical didn't reply, and looked down. "So what are your resolutions for the new year, anyway?"

Atton grinned, took it out of his pocket, and tossed it to him. Mical caught it.

_1) Do NOT fight the urge to drive a very, very painful lightsaber through Kreia's skull. _

_2) Remember to keep a spare lightsaber handy, for whichever next person cracks something about me always crashing the ship. (Is it MY fault we're carrying around an ex-Jedi who has friends who like to shoot us down wherever we go?)_

_3) Stop having fantasies of Demi and me locked in the cargo hold, all alone…_

Mical didn't find he had the courage within himself to keep reading. Grossed out, he managed, "You do realize that Demi is going to be reading these things?"

Atton's face paled. "What? Give that to me."

Mical obliged, and Atton fixed it to read:

_1) Try to remember that it is not Kreia's fault that she's an old hag. _

_2) Have the courtesy to give out a warning BEFORE I crash the ship. _

_3) Play pazaak in my head at all times. Just in case._

"Do you think it's pushing it?" Atton asked. "The whole Kreia thing? You know, the whole 'remembering' part might get a bit hard. Ah, well. Resolutions are made to be broken, as they say."

"Well, uh," Mical stumbled. "It's…better. Although I think you are missing the whole concept of New Year's Resolutions."

Atton grabbed it back. "Yeah, well, at least I'm done. I wish I could say the same for you, but you've barely finished your first one."

Ignoring Mical's protests, he grabbed his holopad from him.

"'Stop apologizing so often,'" Atton read, then threw it back, chuckling. "Ever the momma's boy, aren't you? What are you doing, trying on this new bad boy tactic? I thought you were supposed to be the well-mannered one."

"I was getting tired of it," Mical said grudgingly.

"Is that right?" Atton looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. After a pause: "Do you need help with your next two resolutions? Because I gotta say, you got a whole cabinet of ideas with the Atton Man here."

If there was one thing Mical was sure about, it was the fact that there was no possible way that Atton Rand would be the one to write his resolutions for him.

"No thank you," he said decisively.

"Suit yourself," Atton shrugged, heading back to the cockpit.

Feeling oddly restless, Mical got up as well, and started heading back to the med bay, when he heard voices. It was Mira and Demi talking in the garage. A liberating recklessness came over him him, and he edged closer to the voices and eavesdropped in on their conversation.

Mira cleared her throat. "Um, I know that this is going to sound kind of strange coming from me, but you're glowing. I mean, something is just radiating off of you."

Demi laughed lightly. "Hmm. Funny, I've been hearing that a lot. I guess this is just an after-effect of being in tune with the Light Side. Or some other strange Force thing I have yet to ask Kreia about."

There was a short pause. "Oh, okay," Mira replied. "See, here I was thinking that there was something going on between you and the Disciple."

Mical's heart thumped in his chest. _Is this what women talk about all the time?_ he wondered faintly. He awaited Demi's response.

"No," Demi said shortly, a little shocked. "I mean, I like Mical. He's a good person, and a good Padawan. But that's all there is. There's no chance of anything more. Not now. Probably not ever." There was a pause. "You know, I hadn't even considered him that way before."

Mical's cheeks were burning.

Mira was determined to find something. "Okay, got it, just checking. But what about Rand?"

Mical's spirits flew, then fell, not daring to hope for anything.

"Atton?" Demi remarked in surprise. "Well, I—I don't know, nothing's really happened yet." There was a pause. Mical leaned closer, to see her. Demi was petite and blonde, with soulful eyes. At the moment she was lovely, blushing, and uncomfortable. And the way she had said Atton's name…She had never said Mical's name like that. Ever. Was it too much to hope that someday she would?

"Do you want something to happen?" Mira pushed on.

"Mira, I—I don't know," Demi stuttered. "Atton's…complex. Complicated. And really confusing. Especially now that I've just learned more about his past."

_His past?_ Mical thought alarmed. What was so special about Atton's past? Downcast, he realized that it had only been a few minutes before he had told Demi everything about him and his past relationship with the Jedi. _Stupid, stupid…_ he chided himself. _She must think me a trusting fool._

"Really?" Mira said, interested. "You see, I had Rand down as…Well, I don't want to quote from Kreia too often…but as a fool. A male schutta. You know, cheater at pazaak, drinker of juma, flirt with twi'lek girls…"

Demi shook her head. "That's where you'd be wrong, Mira. He's a lot more than that, but he doesn't always show that side to everyone."

"I see now," Mira said finally, slowly. "Who ever would think that Demia Thress, Jedi Guardian, had a weakness for bad boys?"

"W—What?" Demi sputtered out, flustered. "N—_No_. That's completely off the point. I—"

"Heard enough?" came a voice behind Mical, who grabbed him by the shoulder and led him back into the main hold.

"Atton, I'll have you know I wasn't eavesdropping," Mical said, falling into a seat.

"No? And what do you call secretly listening in on the private conversation of others?"

Mical's mouth formed words, but no sounds came out.

"That's what I thought."

"What do you call what you were doing, then? Because as far as I'm concerned, I wasn't the only one…eavesdropping."

Atton sighed, almost regretfully. "I really am a bad influence on you, you know."

"I was just curious, that's all."

"As we all are, Padawan, as we all are."

They were silent for a few moments.

_Here goes all of my pride and self preserved dignity…_ Mical thought.

"Atton." Mical took a deep breath. Haltingly, these words came out. "I want you…to teach me…how to be…like you."

There. He had said it.

To Mical's never-ending surprise, Atton's reaction was not to laugh, not to jest, and not to joke.

"No, you don't, Mical," Atton said, turning away, the brief look of surprise masking away. This had been one of the rare moments he had called Mical by his actual name, not 'blondie' or 'pretty boy' for once. Atton stared at the wall as though it was the most interesting thing in the galaxy. "You really don't. You don't know the first thing about me, so whatever gave you this spectacular idea?"

Mical chose his words carefully. "I know that the exile…admires you. And I—"

"—want to win her fair heart and from then on live happily ever after?" Atton chuckled darkly, pacing around the room. "Or could it be, maybe, that the real reason for all of this is the fact that you're _tired_ of being the perfect Jedi? You think you're missing something, some darkness inside of you that you just…have this hunger for. Secretly."

Mical looked away.

"Because if all you want to do is get to Demi, then I'd be seriously questioning your logic by coming to _me_." Atton sighed. "Look, kid, I don't indulge the whims of people on a regular basis—"

"Excluding piloting Demi wherever she wants to go at just a wave of a hand?" Mical inquired. _Did he just call me kid? I'm probably older than him, for Force's sake!_

"That's different," Atton said, his voice hard. "Besides, it's not just a plain hand, it's a hand holding a thick wad of juicy credits."

Astonished, Mical said, "The exile _pays_ you to pilot us around?"

"I'm kidding." Atton pulled up a seat. "And stop calling her 'the exile'. She has a name, you know, and I'd like you to start using it. Besides…" His voice softened. "We're as much exiles as she is."

Mical nodded. He could understand that.

"So…it's a no?" he questioned.

Atton shuffled through his pazaak deck thoughtfully. _Actually,_ he thought, _this could be fun._

"Whatever gave you that idea?" he said smoothly, spreading the cards over the table. "Lesson the first: Learn to play real pazaak from the expert."

"Okay, then," said Mical, pushing up his sleeves, and taking another deep breath. "Let's begin."

**Lesson Number One: In Which Pure Pazaak Isn't All That Pure**

"Now," said Atton, taking a healthy swig of juma, "the goal of pazaak is to—"

"I know the rules of pazaak, Atton," Mical said, rolling his eyes. "I may be naïve sometimes, but not _this_ naïve. This is the most popular game in the entire galaxy if you haven't noticed."

"No, you're wrong," Atton said simply. "It's not just a game. It's…a means of survival. My way of getting around the galaxy. And a single lucky hand has saved my life more than once."

"I'm not sure I like the idea that my fate lies in a chancy batch of cards trying to total to twenty," Mical said uncertainly.

"This is the life of a scoundrel, Padawan," Atton said, gesturing at the cards before him. "We thrive on danger, just like Jedi thrive on the Force. Put them together and you have one powerful guy you should steer clear away from." Atton dealt out the cards. "Breathe it all in, your opponent's fear, their uncertainty, and the way they know that you'll always be one step ahead of them. That's freedom, Mical. Because you're not the one living in fear all the time. They are."

Atton's eyes were on fire. "It's your turn."

Startled, Mical realized he was talking about their pazaak game. Mical drew a +3.

"You miss it, don't you?" he ventured.

Atton drew a card too. +7. "That depends. What am I supposed to be missing?"

Mical sighed. 3+811. "I heard Mira and Demi talking."

7+411. "What are you getting at, Mical? I'm sick of all this cryptic Jedi talk. If you've got something to say, come out and say it."

11+819. "They were talking about your past."

11+718. "That right?"

Mical swallowed and took a chance. "Is there something you'd like to tell me?" Hold at 19.

Atton glared at him over the rim of his juma cup. Challengingly, he said, "_No,_ because you're asking about it. If I wanted to tell you something—which is very unlikely, by the way—I'd have come and told you. All right?"

18+321. 21-120.

Atton had won the first set. Mical flinched as they began the second bust.

"You know, I'm starting to think that this whole teach-me-to-be-like-you show is just a trick to spend some quality time with me, so you can try to get past my defenses and learn about whatever it is I'm hiding." Atton's tone stung more than usual. "Well, guess what? I've already gone through this heart-to-heart talk with Demi, and that's fine, but I'm really not ready to announce my past sins to the world. So back off."

"Fine. I drop it."

"Great."

"Fine."

Silence.

And then, the Iridonian came in. "Wow," he said, stopping dead in his tracks, his calm voice filling the main hold. "I'm surprised at the both of you. So surprised, I think that the galaxy may actually be coming to an end. Are you two really…playing pazaak? Together?"

"Hey, Bao-Dur," Atton said grimly. "Make sure pretty boy's not cheating, all right?"

"For your information, I beat you in the last bust from my own skill," Mical snapped. "I do not need _cheats_ to win over anybody. And don't call me that."

"And so the arguing begins again," Bao-Dur sighed, taking a seat. "And what caused this sudden companionship?"

"Mical wants me to teach him the ancient ways of scoundreling, so that he can find his inner darkness and win over our very own Demi," Atton droned tonelessly.

Bao-Dur looked at Mical, shocked, interested, and more than a little disturbed, then back at Atton. "I was being serious."

"So was I," Atton declared, pouring himself the last drops of juma.

Bao-Dur watched both of them for a second, then pushed back his chair. "You know," Bao-Dur said, standing. "I don't even want to know what it is exactly you want to win over the General. Honestly, I'm better off trying to write my resolutions." Then he paused. "Did you just finish my bottle of juma?" he said to Atton.

"What?" Atton tipped the bottle of juma upside-down. "Oh. Yeah. I guess I did. Imagine that. This was yours?"

"Yes," said Bao-Dur, sounding amused. "And it's been missing from my room for some time now."

Atton drew a card. "Well, you're really going to need to get a better hidden compartment than that, Bao. If you stash them with juma, they don't stay hidden for long. That stuff calls to me."

"I'll be sure to add security lasers to it, then," Bao-Dur said. Then he blinked. "I think you just helped me with my third resolution. Thanks, Atton." And he departed.

Mical shook his head disbelievingly. "Do none of you here understand New Year's Resolutions at all?"

"What can I say?" Atton shrugged. "It goes straight over their heads."

Mical almost choked on his next sip of his drink.

Atton won the next game, then Mical won, and then they tied.

"You're getting the hang of it," Atton said grudgingly. Suddenly, he stood up. "We're going out," he announced.

"What for?" Mical asked, counting up his total.

"Lesson the second," was all Atton said, heading to the ramp. "Are you coming or not?"

And so, the third bust of their pazaak match was left unfinished. But if any spectator had come over to sneak a peek at the unturned card, they would have found a +5, a victory card to both of their 15s. But whoever that winning card was meant for, no one will ever know.

**Lesson Number Two: Live Like a Local**

It was nighttime in Nar Shaddaa when they exited the _Ebon Hawk_. The city was lit up like a decaying jewel, and Mical once again found himself wishing they were back in Dantooine.

Atton strode ahead of Mical, not waiting for him.

"Where exactly are we going?" Mical asked, trying to keep pace with him. It was obvious that Atton knew his way around here.

Atton stopped abruptly, scanning Mical from head to toe. "We can't do with this," he said, roughly poking his Jedi robes. "It's too princely, too proper. And your shoes…"

"What's wrong with my shoes?" Mical said defensively.

He sighed. "Sorry, blondie. They have to go."

And Atton resumed walking.

"Are you…are you saying we're going…_shopping?_" Mical said, flabbergasted.

"I have a coupon!" Atton called over his shoulder, and disappeared into an alley, leaving Mical gaping behind him.

_Oh, Force…_ Mical found himself thinking more than a dozen times that night. _If anyone finds out I went shopping…with Atton…who picked out my clothes for me…in Tooba's Boutique Slash Marketplace…with an expired coupon…I think I'll stick a lightsaber in myself._

"Put them on!" Atton hissed later, checking to see if anyone was watching.

"What? Why? I already know it's my size. Don't they bag them for us?"

"Mical," Atton said warningly. "Put on the fracking clothes or I'll make you."

"No—No thanks," Mical said, flustered. "I'm fully capable of—"

"I know you are, but _I'm_ not capable of paying for all of this, not with a fracking coupon that's been expired for seven years, and if you walk out of here still looking like the kind of guy you'd like to bring home to your mom, I'd have to hit myself over the head because of being an embarrassment and failure to the International Scoundrel Guru. And we're going to the cantina right after this, and I don't have the time or patience to wait for you again. So put them on, so we can steal outta here!"

"International Scoundrel Guru," Mical scoffed on his way to the changing tents, trying to forget about hearing the word 'steal'.

When Mical appeared out of the dressing tent, somebody should have been playing a rock and roll theme. Dressed head to toe in black Mynock leather, a fang of an Zakkeg dangled in one of his ears, and black boots with a license to kill topped it all off. His shaggy blonde hair rustled in the wind.

"I can barely move in this," he muttered uncomfortably, tugging on the leather pants. He held his Jedi robes and other items in a bag.

Atton slapped him on the shoulder when he came out. "Well. It's certainly an improvement, I'll give you that. I'm almost not ashamed to be seen with you."

"Thank you, Atton," said Mical, shaking his head disbelievingly. "I'm flattered."

"Now let's get out of here."

He handed Mical a Stealth Field Generator.

"A—Atton," Mical said, unsure. "I do have a few credits. Maybe we don't really need to—"

"Mical," Atton said patiently, gesturing at the few workers in the outdoor store. "Look at them. They're slacking off. And did you notice their customer service? Or, should I say, lack thereof? They're pretty much asking for this."

"I—I really don't think—"

Wordlessly, Atton handed the calculated price of the jacket, pants, shirt, earring, and boots altogether to him.

Mical swallowed.

"You see?" Atton said, snatching it back. "They're way overpriced. But that's the Smuggler's Moon for you. Arrogant schuttas. Demi'll be all over me if I spend too much, which, ordinarily, I wouldn't complain about, but she's got enough to worry about already. I've already deactivated the sensors on everything we got, so no alarms should be triggered."

"I could just return the—"

"No," Atton said forcefully.

"I really don't need the—"

"No."

Mical sighed, giving up, and activated the Stealth Field Generator, and made a mental note:

_Resolution Number Two: Stop getting yourself pushed around into horrible situations._

He convinced himself that these resolutions didn't need to actually get put into action until the New Year started.

"Follow me, and don't make too much noise," Atton said, taking Mical's bag from him.

"Don't you think they'll notice two customers coming in, and only one of those two coming back out?" Mical said, arching his eyebrow. But of course Atton couldn't see that.

"Not with these babies," Atton said softly, reaching into his pocket. Mical leaned over to see two sonic grenades.

"Oh, no," Mical breathed. "Atton, no. I can't let you do this."

Atton rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to blow up the store, blondie. I'm going to do a trade. Keep 'em busy. Distract 'em. However you like to say it, but while I'm talking, you get out of here. Meet me by the cantina, all right?" Atton looked around aimlessly. "Are you even here?"

"Apparently," said Mical. "Don't cause too much trouble."

And a gust of wind swept past Atton and out into the street.

It wasn't until Mical found an empty side street near the cantina that he deactivated the Stealth Field Generator. He still felt a little disoriented. It was a strange sensation, looking down at yourself and seeing nothing there. But even more strange was this feeling of being misplaced in your own skin. For some reason, Mical felt taller, more daring, more _bad_, and all because of a few yards of leather and a fang earring.

_I wonder how Demi would react if she saw me now,_ Mical thought dryly. _Would she run away? Would she even recognize me?_

And then, he turned a corner and bumped straight into everyone's favorite red-head.

"Force," Mira groaned, clutching her forehead and stepping back. "Hello, Mr. Leather? Trying to walk here!"

"I'm terribly sorry, Mira," Mical said.

Mira blinked. "_Mical?!_"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

Mira laughed out loud. "Holy Mother of Juma with gizkas on top!" She tugged on his leather collar, as though to convince herself it was really there. "It's really you, isn't it? You're barely recognizable. You even look halfway decent." She paused. "Are you on spice?"

Mical fought the urge to roll his eyes. "_No—_"

From behind them, Atton came running up, panting, and holding a juma bottle of all things in his hand. "Hey there, Mira," he said. "I see you've met our very own Disciple Gone Bad."

Mira groaned again. "Rand. I should have known you were behind this. Is this the Atton Scoundrel Makeover Session?" she said with scorn.

"Something like that," Atton said, putting an arm around Mical, uncorking the juma bottle with his mouth and shooting it away, before taking a swig.

"Where did you get that bottle?" Mical said apprehensively.

"From Tooba's," he said simply. "I traded in the grenades for this, so really, we all came out of this happily, and not empty-handed. You got your new wardrobe, I got some booze, and Tooba's got some powerful grenades, which was enough for them to turn a blind eye." Atton took another chug and swallowed, swaying a little. "Also…I got this juma bottle for Bao-Dur, in exchange for stealing and drinking his old one bottom's up. And this'll be my present to him. That is, as long as I don't finish this before I get back to the _Hawk._ So really, I'm a man of honor and selflessness."

"Yeah," Mira scoffed. "And you're also Exar Kun. You're dead on your feet, Rand! What are you thinking, getting drunk like this? Demi's about ready to go back to Dantooine right after our New Year's celebration tonight and—" She swatted Atton on the head.

"Hey!" he protested, shoving her off.

"—our own pilot is trying to turn Mical into a clone of himself!" She looked at both of them seriously. "One Atton is enough for us to handle, don't you think?"

Atton and Mical exchanged a look.

Mira sighed. "Fine. Just let me know when you both grow up."

Mical felt like he had been slapped. Shrugging off Atton, he said, "Mira…"

"Save it, pretty boy," Mira snapped. "I'm off to find some good and _sober_—" She glared at Atton. "—company."

And she headed back to the _Hawk_.

Mical stared after her, feeling oddly empty and lost.

"Aw, it's all right," Atton said, re-corking the bottle. "She's just upset that you're finally loosening up and having fun. Come on, it's time for the last lesson. You up for it?"

"I suppose," Mical said slowly, letting himself get dragged away.

**Lesson Number Three: In Which It All Comes Together With Even More Juma**

"You have the looks and attire," said Atton. "You've gotten suitable pazaak skill, and you've learned what's really going on behind the cards. But none of that really matters unless you learn about something equally important…the attitude."

"Oh, boy," Mical breathed.

"See that gang?" Atton said, gesturing discreetly at a group of Exchange thugs near the cantina entrance. They held vibroblades and blasters at the ready. "They're just waiting to pounce on any unlucky passerby us as we try to get inside. How d'you suppose we handle this?"

Mical swallowed. "I'm guessing it doesn't end with us all having a friendly cup of caffa together."

"You guessed right."

Mical sighed, and he and Atton both took a step towards them and the cantina.

"Well, well," said the Exchange thug leader, taking a step forward. "Look at the two little humans gone astray. We heard you're part of the Jedi's party…and that you've returned to Nar Shaddaa for a little celebration. A foolish mistake on your part. What'll you do without your leader, I wonder?"

"Well, first off," said Atton, spinning out his yellow lightsaber. "It doesn't include us having small talk."

"Or caffa," Mical mumbled.

"Why don't we let our weapons do the talking?"

The Exchange thug smiled a sly smile. "So be it."

With one quick motion, his followers all got into their stances, ready to rush in, but before they were able to move another muscle, something happened.

Mical closed his eyes, and from his hand, he used the Force to channel it over to all of them, casting stasis and paralyzing them.

Only one of the thugs was unaffected, and suddenly, his eyes widened in fear at the sight of two Jedi turning on him, lightsabers on. And he was all alone.

"Get out of our sight," Mical said forcefully. "You're not going to bother us any longer, and if you lay even one finger on any of our friends, you'll end up just like your companions here, only…permanently so."

The thug swallowed, and turned on his heel and ran.

"Well," said Atton circling around the bodies. It was like somebody had pressed a 'pause' button on all of them. "He's sure a pathetic excuse of an Exchange thug."

"And that surprises you?" Mical said.

Atton half-smiled. "Hmph. Not bad; I'll give you creativity marks for this, although I was a bit hungry for a little fight." Atton peered into the eyes of one of the Exchange thugs with interest. "How long do you reckon they'll stay like this?"

"Long enough," said Mical, switching off his lightsaber. "Though hopefully not enough to draw too much attention. When they snap out of it, hopefully they'll be too dazed to remember what just happened and drift off."

"But if they're still here when we come back out, we can take them," Atton finished.

Mical nodded.

"Thus endeth the lesson," Atton said, spinning his lightsaber back into his belt. "Well." He ran his hands through his thick brown hair. "If nothing else, I can teach you one thing."

He fixed a serious gaze on Mical's face, suspense in the air.

"And that is?" urged on Mical.

Atton cleared his throat for effect. Speeders zoomed above them, the smell of cigarra smoke filled the air, and the distinct sound of music came from inside the cantina, as Mical awaited Atton's next words attentively.

"Beware…." Atton said slowly. "…of…yellow snow."

Mical rolled his eyes. "I'm sure that'll be very useful in life, someday." Mical shook his head. "No, I've learned something else too. Something I've just realized. But I think right now…"

He eyed the cantina.

Atton smiled. "I'm away ahead of you."

And the two strolled inside the cantina for a drink like they were old friends.

…

"You better keep an eye on your belongings and be aware of your surroundings," warned Atton, sliding onto a seat at the bar. "Some of the people here have slippery fingers. Hit me," he said to the bartender, tossing down a credit. "That's all I'll spend," he said in answer to Mical's look, holding up two hands in retreat. "I'll make this drink last, I promise. And I won't steal into Bao's bottle." Mical looked on unbelievingly. "What? Can't an underpaid pilot get drunk once in a while?" Atton demanded.

"No, you're not allowed to drink and fly." Mical scanned the crowd. "The music's loud and it's way too dark in here," he remarked.

"Yeah, I hear it's like that in some cantinas." Atton exhaled in satisfaction, setting down his drink. "So. Let's talk about how, even through all this male bonding, I want to make it clear that I still don't like you."

"It's been made quite clear, Atton. I wouldn't worry about it."

"That's good then. Just so it's all straightened out. No loose ends."

"Right."

They thought their own thoughts in silence.

"She'll never love me, you know," Mical said in an undertone.

Atton looked up in surprise.

"It doesn't matter what clothes I wear, or what persona I pretend to possess. In the end, it's just me. And she's too perfect. And whoever I really am…It's not enough."

Atton took a sip of his drinking, thinking. "She's not perfect, pretty boy. Maybe that's what she comes across as, but she's really not. She's vulnerable, she has a temper, and there's things that she doesn't like to admit, even to herself. She cares too much about others that sometimes she forgets all about herself, and obviously, there are things she has done in the past that she isn't too proud of." Atton drummed his fingers on the table. "At least we have that in common."

"And you still love her, even through all that?" Mical inquired.

Atton looked him straight in the eye. "Blondie, that's _why_…" Then he shook his head. "That's—that's for me to know."

Mical held his gaze, then nodded, understanding. "Also, she's beautiful, isn't she?"

"Heh. Well, okay, that too."

Mical smiled. "I'd like a juma, as well," he told the bartender, paying up, then raising his glass in salute.

"To women," Atton proclaimed solemnly. "May they puzzle and torment us forever."

"If they must," Mical sighed, and they clunked their glasses against each other, and drank deep.

…

The New Year's party on the Hawk was a celebration to remember. It was just a few blue lights strung up in the main hold, some jumas and caffas laid out, and holiday-ish songs played by T3 (somehow they had been recorded in his programming), but everyone was happy anyways.

"Here, Bao-Dur," Atton said, handing the bottle of juma to him. "Happy New Year, and all that touchy-feely stuff."

Bao-Dur smiled. "Where'd half of the contents go, I wonder?" He clasped Atton's shoulder briefly. "Thanks, and same to you."

HK-47 handed out jumas with a cheerful, "Speculation: This drink will cause you an inevitable, painful death someday. Statement: Enjoy!"

Mira and Visas talked and laughed quietly together. Mandalore was trying to make T3 play some 'actual music', meaning Mandalorian folk songs, but T3 with a, "Beeep!" and "Doot!" said they were too bloody for the occasion. G0T0 floated around the room in disdain and irritation, trying to avoid Bao-Dur's little remote that kept flying around him in circles, suppressing the temptation to zap him (just for tonight, of course). Even Kreia sat in her own dark corner, a glass of something in her hand, her expression obviously conveying that she thought they were wasting time dilly-dallying here—although Mira swore she saw a slight smile light upon Kreia's face for a fraction of a second.

Mical watched Atton creep up behind Demi and whisper something her ear that made her laugh, smile up at him, and punch him lightly on the shoulder.

Mical turned away, heading to the solitary calmness of his room.

Earlier, Mira had seen him back in his old Jedi robes. "You made the right choice," she said.

"You won't tell Demi?" Mical asked.

"Your secret dies with me," Mira promised. "Well, let's just hope Bao-Dur and Atton don't spill anything, or else your story of how you tried to be Atton for a day gets out to the whole world, and maybe even the CyberNet. And Force, do we forbid that. Happy New Year, blondie."

All alone now, he took out his holopad, where now three resolutions were.

He deleted out the 'Stop spending so much time with Atton,' he had written earlier.

And as Demi raised a glass with everyone else in the main hold, saying, "To a new beginning!" and they echoed it back to her, laughing, and as they counted down to the New Year, all troubles forgotten for just a moment, Mical wrote in his new, and last resolution.

_Resolution Number Three: Learn to be happy with who I am._

**End.**


End file.
